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MARIE: 

A BOOK OF LOVE 



marie: 

A BOOK OF LOVE 

BY 

PETER NANSEN 

n 

TRANSLATED BY 
JULIA LEGALLIENNE 


BOSTON: 

JOHN W. LUCE AND COMPANY 
MCMXXIV 


COFTRIGHT, 1924 
JOHN W. LUCE & CO. 


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ThAs 

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Transferred from 
Copyright Office 

*°R 10 




Printed in the United States of America 

PRESS OF THE MURRAY PRINTING COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 


NOV 19 1924 


TO 


P. A. 

AND 

E. A. La V. 

Paris, January, 1924 


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ORCHIDS AND ICICLES 


OF the capitals of Europe, Copenhagen is unique in 
that it is not only the political and social center of 
Denmark but the intellectual metropolis of all Scan¬ 
dinavia. To it flows the literary product of Norway 
and Sweden quite as regularly as that of its own 
authors, the mysticism of the north countries mingling 
freely with the naturally lighter native strain. 

Long accustomed to regard itself as the custodian 
of Scandinavian tradition in philosophy, theology and 
the classics, Copenhagen bears its responsibilities 
with a solemnity that reflects the powerful if narrow¬ 
ing influence of its Lutheran state religion. No witch 
doctor of Central Africa has a more congenial atmos¬ 
phere in which to ferret out a heresy, no Puritan New 
England town of 1630 or thereabouts, a keener nose 
for the taint of brimstone in the air, or the savory 
odors of forbidden fleshpots. The Danish capital 
even suspected Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales. 

Yet Copenhagen has not escaped the natural conse¬ 
quences incident to its position as the home of a 
royal court, the capital of an ancient state, a uni¬ 
versity city and the metropolis of a prosperous coun- 
[ix] 


try. The undercurrent of life is as full blooded, as 
effervescent, as reckless as in any of the northern 
capitals, notwithstanding its professional attitude of 
censorship. 

In 1861, with no prevision that the orthodox 
respectability of Denmark’s intellectual attitude was 
destined, in future years, to experience at his hands 
one of those unpleasant shocks which self-righteous¬ 
ness invites, Peter Nansen was ushered into the world, 
the son of a worthy Lutheran pastor whose parish was 
in the provincial town of Olburgh, some fifty miles 
from the capital. 

As a boy, Nansen attended a preparatory school, 
Herlufsholm, and in 1879 matriculated as a student 
at Copenhagen where he quickly acquired an enviable 
reputation for scholarship. 

It was at this time that one of the great transition 
periods of European literature set in. France, Bel¬ 
gium, England, Germany—each became conspicuous 
in the movement which was to culminate in the bril¬ 
liant if somewhat illusive glories of the eighteen- 
nineties. Quite independently of each other these 
national groups sought to free themselves from the 
current standards of literary values which had long 
since lost all touch with the classic, epic, romantic or 
for that matter any school of expression save in the 
form of some attenuated derivative. 

[X] 


In Denmark the influence of the German, rather 
than the English or French movements, appealed to 
the oncoming generation and Nansen at once adhered 
to it, winning thereby the disapproval of the guard¬ 
ians of tradition, who, to this day, refer bitterly to 
his having allied himself with the radicals in his 
student days. 

This German renaissance which is so delightfully 
recorded by that brilliant critic, the late Percival 
Pollard, in his 64 Masks and Minstrels of New Ger¬ 
many,” became by its friends and foes alike known 
as the Green-German movement of the eighteen- 
eighties, although as early as 1878 Heinrich Hart, 
one of the foremost figures in the revolt, had sounded 
the first challenge. 

In view of the fact that the conditions which 
induced this movement in Germany were substan¬ 
tially the same in England and every continental 
country at that period, it is well worth while to quote 
Mr. Pollard’s views, not only as a background for 
the author of 44 Marie,” but for an understanding of 
the wider significance and history of the foundations 
on which our contemporary literature has reared 
itself. 

44 German writing, especially in lyric forms, was 
for something like fifty years after 1832 4 mere lit¬ 
erature ’ and nothing more. It had nothing to do 
[xi] 


the lugubrious features of the half dozen sable- 
garbed pastors who file into the invalid’s room to 
exorcise the unorthodox, a fair idea may be had of 
the reception accorded Nansen’s maiden effort by the 
elect of Denmark. 

During the remaining years of the eighties a num¬ 
ber of short romances, stories and plays came from 
Nansen’s pen, which was also employed on the staff 
of the famous Danish journal, Politiken . 

In the early nineties appeared 64 Marie: A Book of 
Love ” which at home merely added fuel to the pyre 
on which Nansen’s moribund detractors imagined 
they were destroying the author, but which, as is so 
often the case, proved a beacon light that drew the 
attention and quickly the admiration of a discriminat¬ 
ing public throughout Germany and Austria where 
Nansen’s previous work had already begun to be 
recognized. 

The great publishing house of Gyldendalske 
attached Nansen to its staff in 1896 as its managing 
director, and with that connection the creative work 
of the artist practically ceased. Henceforth his 
splendid talents, energy and imagination were de¬ 
voted to the wearisome routine of commercializing 
the safe and well-known classics. After nearly 
twenty years of service, broken in health, Nansen’s 
firm dispensed with his services and in 1918 he died, 
[xiv] 


beloved by every artist of Scandinavia and honored 
wherever his work is known by those to whom it is 
given to recognize beauty in the truth of life. 

Consistent to the last the keepers of the Scandi¬ 
navian tradition burden their literary organs with 
obituaries solemnly calling the world to witness that 
they disown Nansen and all his works save in so far 
as the drudge of Gyldendalske succeeded in popu¬ 
larizing cheap reprints of the classics. They recall 
the shock to their delicate susceptibilities occasioned 
by his youthful creations and thank God that Nan¬ 
sen’s most appreciative audience is beyond the con¬ 
fines of his native country. 

To that wider audience Peter Nansen is not only 
the outstanding figure of Danish literature in the days 
of the modern renaissance, but an integral part of 
the movement as a whole, which losing sight of its 
universality, English readers are too apt to think cen¬ 
tered about the 66 Savoy ” and the 66 Yellow Book.” 
Nansen is one of the few in that brave company of the 
eighteen nineties whose work realizes in accomplish¬ 
ment the artistic aspirations of their enthusiasm. 

In writing “ Marie,” Peter Nansen composed an 
idyll and called it A Book of Love. A great musi¬ 
cian, had there sprung from his mind the theme and a 
power of execution capable of rivalling the harmony, 
the rhythm, the development of motif commanded by 
[xv] 


Nansen would have called it a symphony. And that, 
indeed, it is, line for line transposable into the nota¬ 
tion of the symphonic composer, its exotic beauty 
gliding in faultless rhythm through an impelling 
harmony. An idyll, a symphony, an exotic, is this 
book of love—not the conventional exotic that sug¬ 
gests the flesh-textured petals of mauve orchids mo¬ 
tionless in the half light of over-scented, humid air, 
but an exotic of the north where, with fantastic 
imagery, Beauty brings forth her blossoms as pure, 
sparkling frost crystals in a clear, bracing air, vi¬ 
brant with health, physical and spiritual alike. 

H. H. S. 


I>vi] 


MARIE: 

A BOOK OF LOVE 



MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


MY beloved is the most desirable of all women. 
Many women have given me their love. They came 
and they went—loves of a day, a week, or a year. 
I am grateful to every one of them; but I fear I 
forgot them the moment they were outside my door. 
There was only one whom I always remembered, 
even when these others were with me; for she was 
the radiant ideal with whom they were all compared, 
near whom every one else faded. There was only 
one I always wished to enter my door, for she alone 
seemed ever fresh and new. There is only one with 
whom I would wish to live, for with her life takes 
on a golden meaning, a sunbright reality; there is 
only one I would wish to die with, for with her I 
know no fear. The name of my beloved is Marie. 
She is fairer than all other women. 

I THINK nothing of the praise a poet offers the 
woman who is his first and only love. For what is 
his judgment worth? The judgment of an ignora- 

[i] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


mus, a country clown! and more than likely his 
beloved is not worth all the fine words he steals from 
the language to bedeck her. It were as if a man 
knew only one colour and said: This colour, this blue 
or this red or this yellow, is the most glorious of 
all colours. We could hardly indeed say that he 
talked like a blind man, though he would really be 
little better. Thus, had I a mistress who was satis¬ 
fied when I said, You are the first and only one, you 
are the first in the world—I would put her from me 
with disdain. But if she were sure of herself, if 
she valued my adoration, she would say: Take ten, 
take twenty other mistresses, choose amongst those 
whom men most desire, and if you, after having 
possessed them, still call me the best in the world, 
I will be proud and happy. 

When I say to Marie, You are lovelier than all 
others, her heart can beat in proud joy. I was not 
true to her before I knew I spoke the truth. 

I DID not know I spoke the truth, before I thought 
her lost. 

It is the trial I would wish every man for his love. 
A bitter trial it is, but it is an ordeal of cleansing 
fire as well. 


[2] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


Sorrow purifies, and sorrow fertilises. The love 
sown in carelessness through sorrow grows strong and 
pure. 

Blessed be the sorrow which hallowed my love for 
Marie. 

SHE came to me an ignorant child. I can see her 
still, as she was at that time. So superior, so sure 
of herself as only the innocent are. You would have 
taken her for a matron of grave experience. She 
talked of life as though she knew it inside and out, 
as if she had tried and tasted it all, and was already 
disappointed and tired. She assured me, with won¬ 
dering baby-eyes, that she was seriously thinking of 
taking the veil. What could she hope from life? 
She knew that there was nothing for her but tran¬ 
quil resignation for the rest of her days. 44 For,” as 
she said convincingly, 44 happiness can only be found 
in love, and I and love have done with each other. 
The student—to whom I was engaged—I have 
learned to despise. His caresses grew hateful to me, 
his love-sick words filled me with loathing. No, I am 
not mad for love.” 

She said it with tired voice, she said it, too, 
with burning cheeks and shining eyes. A woman 

[3] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


wedded to chastity, who was fit for but one thing— 
love. 

It was then as she stood before me, a tall, slender 
girl confiding to me her baby-sorrows, that I fell in 
love with her. How charming she was with her 
simple-hearted sadness. How sweet she looked in 
her pretty frock! 

MARIE’S pretty frock! The frock she wore that 
first day of our acquaintance. Never shall I forget it. 

The time came when Marie had many beautiful 
and expensive dresses, but in none of them had she 
ever looked so lovely as in the simple frock which 
at that time was her only splendour. It was a frock 
with a light flower-sprinkled blouse, which without 
being silk looked as though it were. It was pleated 
over the bosom and fastened closely round the throat 
with a tiny silver-gilt baby-brooch. 

A dear little 64 Sunday-girl ” she looked in her 
humble finery, which betrayed her own ladylike 
ambition as well as a mother’s economy. How afraid 
she was lest she should spill a drop of wine on her 
dear flower-sprinkled blouse, and when the sad acci¬ 
dent happened, how eager she was to rub out the 
ugly stain, though all the time she tried to behave 
[4] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


as if she had plenty more such precious garments 
at home. 

Funny little lady, dear little “ Sunday-girl ”! you 
dear transparent hypocrite, who, while you rubbed 
and rubbed the spots, assured me that it did not mat¬ 
ter in the least with that old frock. 

That old frock, your only pretty one—my eyes 
grow moist as I think of it. Through that thin 
flowered blouse it was that I first breathed the 
fragrance of your virgin body, through that little 
blouse I first felt the anxious beating of your heart. 

MY heart was touched by this little girl in the flower- 
sprinkled blouse, this little lady with the grave ex¬ 
perience. I think it was this blouse that made me 
so gentle to Marie. That flowered blouse which was 
her only finery, and which it was so hard to see 
spoiled. 

As a rule men are great fools with women. They 
are too cautious. Women don’t want to be wooed, 
they love best to be conquered. Nearly all of them 
have an inherited instinct which makes them feel 
that they are born to be the weak and the yielding. 
They like to feel themselves under a man’s strong 
and masterful will. Quite involuntarily they despise 

[ 5 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


the men who meekly sue for their favours. How 
often in their hearts must they have cried “ Fool,” 
after the man who has been frightened away by 
those barricades of virtue, behind which they entrench 
themselves, only because they love to be taken by 
force of arms. 

But with Marie there was no need for extreme 
measures. I knew that the day would come when 
of her own free will she would seek my arms, as 
the home to which she naturally belonged. I knew 
it by the melting way in which she met my glance and 
pressed my hand. I knew it the first day — when she 
had neither seen nor heard me — as I stood behind 
her and noticed her body quiver and tremble from 
her head to the tips of her long nervous fingers. 

The strategy of an impetuous warrior was not 
needed here — besides, the flower-sprinkled blouse 
softened my heart. I did not even wish that too soon 
she should be mine. As the gardener loves to watch 
a rare flower grow and develop, and, without touching 
the bud, will carefully remove a sprig or softly 
uncover a leaf, taking care that it has enough light 
and warmth and water, so did I love to see Marie 
develop into full-grown womanhood, into full-grown 
love. 


[ 6 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


ALMOST too patiently did the gardener wait. For 
the moment came, when Marie—flushing deeply, 
but like a true daughter of Eve, with mocking in her 
eyes — pulled my sleeve and said, 44 Are you 
stupid V* 

Some women imagine that men like them to put on 
pretty, terrified airs of being betrayed, to play the 
prude and pretend hysterical fears and tears. Such 
affectations may impress boys, or those green young 
men who think themselves criminals when a woman is 
lying in their arms. Men of the world, however, find 
no attraction in these airs and graces, which are 
seldom sincere, and are never original. The hypoc¬ 
risy makes them angry, ruffling their tenderness as 
well, and it mars the beauty and solemnity of an hour 
which should be the sweetest memory in a woman’s 
life. 

Not so Marie! Marie, most refined of women, I 
praise you and thank you for that. 

MY virgin bride, my Marie. Holy night, when Marie 
became mine! 

Peace without and within. Only a single candle is 
burning. 

I enter the room, and lo! on the bed there lies my 

[ 7 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


bride, white and sweet and smiling. In devotion I 
kneel down and kiss her hand the giver, her mouth 
the promise, and her bosom which trembles in sweet 
expectation. 

I am in her arms, the arms she has so trustfully 
opened for me. I am looking into her eyes. Their 
changing expression shows me her anxiety, her 
amazement, her thankfulness, her exultation at 
suddenly understanding life’s hitherto undreamt-of 
wonders. 

The room is filled with glorious music. Space 
seems to open out higher above us, to spread wider 
around us, and closely embraced, mouth to mouth, 
we float together away from all earthly trouble and 
sorrow. 

Holy night! 

MARIE was mine! But I was not hers, or thought I 
was not. Neither did she think me hers. She had no 
faith in my love, but I knew what she did believe. 
She told me often, and I never denied it, for she used 
to look so charming as she said it. Jealous to her 
finger-tips, and yet so full of common-sense, so will¬ 
ing to 64 understand.” She actually believed I had ten 
mistresses a day — no less! Dear innocent little girl, 
[ 8 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


what wonderful ideas you must have of the strength 
of man. Surely you cannot have learned your mul¬ 
tiplication table. Your imagination runs away with 
you; and on that point Marie was as innocent as the 
rest. She came to me at least six days out of the 
seven, and never once did she find my love asleep. 
All the same she assured me with the most flattering 
gravity, that — as all the town knew — I had mis¬ 
tresses by the score. 

It is true I deceived Marie. 

Yet, I was hers much more than she thought, more 
than I thought myself. 

Not to speak of “ all the town.” 

“ ALL the town!” How I loathe the vermin of slan¬ 
der, which through the keyholes and the chinks of the 
doors come crawling into our homes, dragging with 
them a train of their own dirt. You may guard your 
private life behind double windows and shutters, all 
the town will none the less have been standing out¬ 
side with its own filthy thoughts. And the filth sticks 
to your windows and to your doors. 

Every morning I see on my bedroom window an 
old fat fly. He is quite grey with age and seems too 
lazy to move. 


[9] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


But as soon as I come near him, whip! he has gone. 
I hear him buzz amongst the bed-curtains. I hear him 
smack heavily against the walls or the ceiling. I 
open all the windows and go hunting him with a 
towel. Suddenly he disappears. He hides himself 
in the rug, behind the mirror, or on the frame of a 
picture. There he sits perfectly quiet, until I am 
tired of searching. But every morning I find him 
again on my window-pane. He never leaves me. 
With black specks he soils my sheets, and night after 
night he sings his foul gossiping song over my 
bed. 

When one evening as Marie stood in front of 
the mirror there was the loathsome beast on her 
white neck. 

MARIE is as white and pure as any girl in the whole 
world. She has a fragrance sweeter than any flower. 
Her breath is pure, her whole body is without a fault. 
From head to foot she is sheer delight. She is one 
of those women who without shame can step before 
Nature’s tribunal. She dare even show her feet. 

The poets have many lies on their consciences. But 
on no subject do they romance so shamelessly as on 
the feet of their beloved. A traditional gallantry 
[ 10 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


constrains the poets to praise the feet of women. Yet 
a well-formed foot in our high-heeled Chinese days 
is as seldom seen as the blue flower of poetry itself. 

The first time I saw Marie’s toilet, I watched her 
with fear and misgiving. I know some of the love¬ 
liest women, who never, except perhaps when they 
are alone, take off their stockings. Like the peacocks 
and the mermaids, they are shy of revealing their 
lower parts. 

When Marie sat down on the edge of the bed, 
she stretched out her feet, and said, “ Pull my stock¬ 
ings off, please.” 

I knew then that she was perfect! And kneeling 
before her, I kissed with delight a foot as beautiful, 
as chubby and sweet, as any that your lying poets 
have pretended for their loves. 

WITH many clothes, with few clothes, with no clothes 
at all — Marie is always beautiful. Yet, that is not 
the reason why Marie is more precious to me than 
all other women, of whom many no doubt possess 
beauty just as great. No, the secret is—that God 
made Marie especially for me, for my taste, for my 
delight. That Marie knows quite well. First notice 
her when she is with strangers. She always seems 
[ 11 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


uneasy and restless, she is not sure of herself, her 
manners are forced; sometimes she is too gay, some¬ 
times too silent and taciturn. She is like a bird in 
a strange cage. But the moment she enters my room 
she looks natural and at ease. She is neither flapping 
her wings nor hanging her head. She feels that here 
is her home. Here she becomes just herself, that is, 
she forgets herself in frank joy or fearless grief. 
Here is nothing to upset her. From the very day we 
first met she understood that it was to me she be¬ 
longed, and of that there has never since been a 
moment’s doubt in her soul. 

This simple conviction that she was mine — espe¬ 
cially the fact that she never pretended it was other¬ 
wise — imperceptibly, but the more surely, bound 
my heart to Marie. 

There are women who believe they can best win 
men by a coquettish game of hide-and-seek, now 
approaching, now fleeing, meanwhile dispersing 
smiles to right and left, and pretending that there 
are arms stretched out ready to catch them on every 
hand, if only they could make up their mind whose 
arms to prefer. For such poor make-believe Marie 
thought herself too good, and she was wise. Only 
weak men care to tread that foolish dance. Marie 
[ 12 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


loved me — nothing more. She was mine as much 
as I wanted. The day dawned when I wanted her 
all in all. The happiest day for us both. 

MARIE was mine as much as I wanted. 

Among the many mean and cunning arts of love 
which are taught to our young women, the ugliest is 
that which says that woman ought always to make a 
favour of herself. Love thus becomes a transaction 
in which woman sells herself to the highest bidder. 
This is degrading to love, and still more to woman. 
He loves her, she loves him. Both have the same 
longing, the same desire. How mean then to deny her 
lover his natural right, and only to give it to him as a 
charity for which he must humbly pray. 

If a woman told me she loved me and yet looked 
demure or took offence at my passion, I would turn 
from her with impatience and let her go as unworthy 
of love. Marie never said me nay. She followed 
my call as patiently as the lamb follows the shep¬ 
herd’s gentle whistle. I have called Marie at all 
times, when she was tired, and when she slept — but 
she came to me ever with smiling face, and never 
did she feel anything but joy in answering her lover’s 
call, only too proud that he should call her so often. 
[ 13 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


If Solomon, the kingly poet, had known you, 
Marie, he would have written to you like this: 

66 The shepherd is down in the valley playing on his 
reed. He is longing for his beloved, who has fol¬ 
lowed her sisters to the mountains. But see on the 
mountain top she stands, staff in hand, watching for 
the shepherd, who plays the well-known tune. When 
she sees him, she springs like a gazelle down the 
mountain, over the sharp stones, through the thistle 
and the cactus thick with thorns. To move faster 
she throws away her staff. Thorns tear her gown 
and pierce her ankles. Stones cut her sandals to 
pieces and gash her feet. The maiden’s way down 
the mountain is red with blood. But never does she 
rest, for she hears her lover’s flute. She throws her¬ 
self at the shepherd’s feet, she kisses his mantle, say¬ 
ing: 6 Be not angry, my lord, that I did not come 
before.’ ” 

“ My beloved,” says the shepherd, “is swift and 
generous as the forest spring. She will not let me 
languish.” 

MARIE, my ever generous spring, I know what 
envious people will say of you, men who turn 
the treadmill of a joyless marriage, women who 
[ 14 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


bear their children in marriage beds void of beauty. 

They will lift horrified eyes to a heaven which 
laughs at their prudish folly, they will call you a 
wanton. 

Marie a wanton! One might as well call the rose 
a stink-pot or the nightingale a squeaking toy. Never 
one moment has Marie’s pure bosom found lodging 
for a wanton thought. She is an innocent young girl, 
to whom love seems as natural as fragrance to the 
rose, as song to the nightingale. But though so deeply 
in love, she is none the less a very wise and clever 
little girl. She can sew and knit and embroider. 
She knows several languages and is rich in knowl¬ 
edge. She is even a good cook. 

Therefore, you see, dear proper men and matrons, 
to call Marie a pattern of a well-bred young lady is 
but to do her justice. Neither must you believe that 
when we were together we had nothing to think of but 
kisses and caresses. Indeed between-whiles we would 
often discuss the deepest and most serious matters. 

Amongst others we one day discussed the reason 
why most women are so irritating. 

On this my wise Marie said: 

64 In my opinion it is because women, as a rule, 
think too much of themselves, just because they are 
[ 15 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


women. Thanks to you silly men, with your servile 
adoration of women, merely because they are female, 
they have really come to think that they are the 
special favourites of nature, miraculously endowed 
with beauty, wit, and charm. They are nearly burst¬ 
ing with conceit. Take for example my cousin 
Amalia. She is ugly as a toad, sour as a crab-apple, 
ignorant as an old shoe. Yet as a representation of 
4 the sex beautiful ’ she considers herself far more 
important than the nicest and most charming man. 
On account of this supposed beauty of her sex she 
exacts the adoration and, on account of its weakness, 
the gallant attention of all mankind. Of course she 
is a monster, but she is hardly an exception; there are 
indeed many just as bad; for as a general rule women 
are really more stupid and plainer than men. It must 
be clear to any one who will open his eyes and ears. 
If you only knew how ashamed a woman who thinks 
differently feels when men at dinner-parties propose 
their high-falutin toasts to a lot of fat, tight-laced 
females or well-padded broomsticks, who without the 
faintest blush swallow all the nonsense and seem to 
enjoy it. Yes, even the most charming women be¬ 
come intolerable when they are possessed by this 
demon of conceit. As soon as a woman, young or 
[ 16 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


old, pretty or plain, begins to reflect upon the wonder¬ 
fulness of being a woman, she ought to be whipped.” 

When Marie, flushed and eager, had finished this 
lecture, I asked her: 44 And are you not just the very 
least bit conceited, Marie?” 

46 Yes,” she answered, and came closer to me. 
44 1 am conceited because you love me.” 

So wisely would Marie think and speak. Who 
will dare call her wanton after this? 

YET there were some points on which even my wise 
Marie was foolish. On these I had to enlighten, her. 
Recognising that I completely lacked the power of 
falling seriously in love, we always believed that our 
relationship would last but a short time, and it hap¬ 
pened therefore one day that we discussed Marie’s 
possible marriage to another. Most impressively did 
I beg Marie to be a good and loving wife to her future 
husband, and never to be untrue to him except when 
I was concerned. For this was the one certain fact, 
the unshakable basis of Marie’s life, that her Creator 
had made her for me, and that at all times mine was 
the first right — a right which no one could ever dis¬ 
pute or annul. 

This Marie understood, and in this we were at 

[17] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


one. She knew that it could never be otherwise. 
But she was not quite sure whether or not she ought 
to tell her husband about our relationship. Was it 
not her duty to let him know that she was not the pure 
girl he might perhaps imagine her to be? 

1 felt sure that Marie had asked this question in 
all good faith. Like many another weak soul, she 
had been led astray by those quack moralists who are 
flourishing nowadays. The greater the necessity to 
have a serious talk with her. 

44 You silly little child,” I said. 44 Can’t you see 
what foolishness you talk? Of course, Marie, if you 
marry a man who is hard and who treats you badly, 
then — as a revenge — tell him that you have had a 
real lover, a lover who spoiled you in every possible 
way, and who taught you the joy of love. But to 
tell this to a brave and good fellow, who has done 
his utmost to make you happy, imagining himself the 
first and only one in your life — how could you have 
the heart to do that? You would wound him more 
cruelly than his bitterest foe. I am assuming that he 
loves you — assuming, too, that you would tell him 
the entertaining story before the wedding. Well, 
then, he would either bid you good-bye and his un¬ 
happiness would come that way, because he loved 
[ 18 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


you; or he would — what is most probable — still 
make you his wife, and at the same time make a hell 
of his own life; a hell of gnawing doubts and sus¬ 
picions. You might treat him ever so sweetly, and 
be ever so faithful, you might even give me up — it 
would be all in vain. Your wicked confession would 
be for ever laughing at him from some corner of his 
heart, freezing his happiness with its icy mockery. 
‘ She has had a lover before, has she forgotten him? 
Is she still longing for him? Or if she has given 
him up, is she longing for another?’ No, Marie, 
you are talking nonsense, and I warn you to beware 
of the false prophets who are crying ‘ Truth ’ in the 
market-places. Truth is a two-edged sword which it 
is wisest to keep in its scabbard, and which, left in 
careless hands, causes more mischief than all the 
thundering lies ever told. I don’t say lie, but I do 
say keep silent, and I would add that if you are 
forced to speak, then consider bravely and lovingly 
which will do the most good, the plain truth or some 
trifling invention.” 

Thus I preached the true law of love to Marie. 
She listened attentively, and did not fall asleep till 
quite a long time after I had finished. 


[19] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


SOMETIMES we helped each other to an understand¬ 
ing in some such way as this. 

One evening, after I had helped her off with her 
stockings, Marie said: 66 1 have often wondered how 
it is that I have never felt ashamed before you.” 

44 Why should you be ashamed? You love me, 
don’t you?” 

44 Yes, of course, that is the first and important 
reason. But it is not all. No, you — yourself, 
have helped me a good deal. Much more than I 
think you know of.” 

44 How?” 

44 Because you have always treated me with such 
sweet respect. You have never looked at me with 
greedy eyes or touched me with insolent hands. You 
have never made me think of you as a male. And 
yet — thank Heaven — a man you are.” 

44 What you are saying, Marie, is perhaps true 
enough. But if we are quite to understand why 
you have never been ashamed with me, there is 
another point to be considered. Tell me honestly: 
had you not been so sure of your own loveliness; 
if, for example, you had suffered from any hidden 
defect, would you in that case have been equally 
frank? Of course you wouldn’t. If your body 
[ 20 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


from top to toe, inside and out, had not been so 
fair, so sweet and shining, then you would have 
been ashamed. First of all you loved me; then 
I was not exactly a ruffian, and in addition you were 
in every way the most beautiful little Sunday-girl — 
even on week days — and that is why you were not 
ashamed.” 

Of which the sad moral is that to be safe, virtue 
should go hunch-backed. 

NOTHING in Marie was ugly, and everything she 
did fulfilled the law of beauty. She was a great 
comfort to irritated nerves. After all, how little 
real attention women pay to beauty. One woman 
has no control over her voice, but lets it out like a 
trumpet. Another neglects her walk and wears boots 
with crooked heels. One bites her nails, another 
scratches her head with her crochet-needle. 

I could not live a month with such a woman with¬ 
out hurting her. A lady, of whom I was very fond, 
once killed an insect with her coffee-spoon. By 
Heaven! I needed all my self-control not to slap her 
in the face. 

With Marie I am safe. She is like a quiet summer 
evening, soothing and exciting at the same time. 

[ 21 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


Sweet harmonies of peace fill one’s soul, everything 
seems bright and lightsome, worries vanish from the 
brains like clearing mists, courage and hope expand 
the heart. When Marie laid her hand on my brow 
she swept away all my troubles, and life lay before 
me as on some quiet summer evening, rich in beauty 
and peace. Never has she set a nerve shrieking with 
pain or anger or disgust. Like heavenly manna did 
she refresh me. Like God’s own blessing did she 
come to me. 

Yes, Marie, you pleased me so entirely that I 
always thought you beautiful. Yes, even that time 
when you suffered so terribly with a bad cold, that 
you scarcely dared show yourself. 

Perhaps you were not very pretty. If so, I never 
noticed it. I only knew that it was all my earthly 
joy to hold you in my arms and to kiss you — then, 
as at all times. 

Fancy! even then I did not understand how it was 
with me. Now I can say from a wider experience: 
that when a man’s love is proof against a bad cold, 
he can be sure of his love. 

I UNDERSTOOD nothing. I am one of those cal¬ 
culating natures that know exactly how far they will 
[ 22 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


go, and who say 46 stop ” as soon as they have reached 
the limit, but who, after having made the make- 
believe offering to prudence, do not mind beginning 
all over again, this time to continue — beyond all 
bounds. 

There were no lack of omens and signs, which 
might have told me my fate. But I said to myself: 
You are not superstitious, what do you care about 
the rubbish the finger of fate is writing on your wall? 

And as yet the night was far away when Babylon 
was to be destroyed. 

[ HAVE reached the boundary! I am looking back¬ 
wards; my eyes are wandering over a spring land¬ 
scape steeped in soft and tender colours. In the 
gardens the dazzling white and pale pink flower 
domes of the fruit-trees are arched against the blue 
sky. Slim green shoots are peeping forth from the 
black mould, and the fields and the meadows are 
glistening with soft silk grass, amongst which white 
and yellow flowers sip the rays of the sun. At the 
gate stands a slender young girl in a blouse shining 
like silk, over which the fruit-trees sprinkle their 
blossoms. She bows and smiles to me, she calls me, 
waving her hand. 


[23] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


I am sure it is Sunday, for the air seems filled with 
the song of church bells. Or is it nature awakened 
and uplifting a morning hymn to Heaven? 

I cover my eyes with my hand. I can no longer 
bear to look over that wonderful spring landscape, 
which I am going to leave behind. 

When again I gaze over the country it is wrapped 
in a grey mist. The shivering fruit-trees bend their 
flower arches to the ground and a black shadow 
steals the brightness from the meadow. 

My eyes wander to the young girl in the flowered 
blouse. She stands with drooping arms; she does 
not feel the rain which is falling, nor the wind which 
sweeps through her thin dress. She looks at me with 
big eyes. She is crying. 

Yet my heart was hardened. Marie’s tears did 
not stop me. I had reached the boundary and I went. 

MARIE cried. 

I have seen women cry before. As a rule their 
tears leave me cold and indifferent, sometimes they 
make me hard. They flow too easily and their source 
is seldom deep and pure. There are women who 
weep only with their eyes, weep only because their 
lachrymal glands have become inflamed. And there 
[ 24 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


are other women whose tears mean only obstinacy and 
vanity, bad temper and bad manners. 

But Marie’s tears came from the heart, and never 
have I seen a woman cry so beautifully. Her weep¬ 
ing was not marred by anger or lamentation, it was 
unaccompanied by whine or complaint. At first her 
tears fell sparingly, they forced their way in heavy 
drops, for Marie — with an effort which shook her 
whole body — fought to keep them back. But when 
at last she had to give up the struggle, they came 
rich and powerful as from a newly-opened spring. 

From Marie I learned to understand that in tears 
there may be blissful healing for all wounds. Like 
a soft rain Marie’s tears flowed soothingly over her 
burning despair and turned it into a gentle sorrow. 

A sorrow so gentle that it even forgave the sinner 
whose hard heart was its cruel cause. 

Forgave me? yes, even more than forgave. 

STERN readers! I can see you frown. Forgive, 
well that might pass. But even more! Impossible! 
Surely Marie could not stoop so low as that. 

Marie, gracious one, step forth and teach these 
poor ignoramuses the gospel of love. Teach them 
that true love is set high above pride and honour, 
[ 25 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


and that it cannot stoop at all. Love makes no 
question of thine and mine, it knows no difference 
between good and evil, between worthiness and 
unworthiness. 

When Marie lay crying in my arms she knew only 
that she loved me, that she saw me perhaps for the 
last time and that not a moment was to be lost. Marie 
has never given me more passionate kisses than those 
which burned through her tears. These kisses were 
like the farewell of the sun before he vanished into 
the night. 

THEN we said good-bye to each other, quiet and 
self-controlled. 

Again I preached the gospel of love to Marie, and 
again she admitted that I was right. 

I said that as we must part some day it was better 
to do so before we grew tired of each other. “ Be¬ 
fore you are tired of me,” she suggested. 64 No, not 
that only,” I continued. “ For the day will come 
when your love will fade, too.” She smiled incredu¬ 
lously, but with a little nod she said, “Perhaps so.” 

1 spoke like a merchant to his thoughtless part¬ 
ner. I took out the day-book and ledger. I proved 
clearly and logically that we had started out 
[ 26 ] 


on a 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


dangerous enterprise, and that it would end with 
failure if we continued. Better to stop before the 
play became serious, for we had never meant to 
hurt each other. Life is far from finished for either 
of us. Each in our own way will seek the haven in 
which to rest. Our love has been a pleasant trip; 
it was only meant for a holiday. It has left us a 
store of bright and pleasant memories; memories 
which both of us will cherish. We do not really 
part. These memories will still bind us to each 
other. In them we shall go on meeting still. 

I was convinced by my own eloquence. When the 
door had closed upon Marie, I hadn’t the least doubt 
that all was over between us. 

ALL over. 

I have always loved these words. They have 
always sounded to me like a triumphant fanfare. 
Something is finished, something new is beginning. 

Over! There is no anxiety any longer, no more 
hesitation. Over — that’s all! Order once more, 
all one’s affairs straight again, and the chance to start 
afresh. Away with the old scruples and worries; 
away with all these doubts and difficulties which hung 
like a heavy knapsack on one’s shoulders. Oh, what 
[ 27 ] 


MARIE: A ROOK OF LOVE 


a relief! what a blessing it is to be able to stretch 
one’s limbs free from all burden. 

Over — do you hear? Over! Blow it gaily to the 
four winds. Over, over, over! 

The fanfare had sounded, and it was evening. I 
sat alone in the autumn twilight, gazing into the stove. 
The fire was nearly dying, but the evening being 
warm, there was no need to put more coals on. 
Quietly I watched the flames dying away. Like 
leaves in the wood the pieces of coal fell rustling 
together, black death forced his way deeper and 
deeper into the fire, methodically he marched from 
piece to piece, until the last embers were buried in 
the collapse of the entire heap. 

All over! The words sounded again in my ears, 
no longer gaily, but sadly and sorrowfully. I went 
on sitting there, while the darkness gathered round 
me and I thought. 

The fire in my room is put out, the fire which never 
caused me pain, but only brought me comfort and 
joy. My willing fire, which blazed hotly, crackled 
merrily or smouldered gently, just as I wanted it; 
my sweet, my beautiful fire is no more. It is dead, 
and I myself have put it out. And am I sure that 
I shall ever find a better? Dare I hope that another 
[ 28 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


fire is burning for me somewhere in the world? Ah, 
call the fire back again! Throw open the gates for it, 
and you need not doubt but that your faithful fire 
will return; it only needs your breath to call it back 
to life. 

I jumped up. I lit candles and lamps. Again I 
heard the triumphant fanfare! You are not made to 
long and to mourn. What has happened was bound 
to happen. You are free, free! 

It is all over! 

I WAS free! 

Marie was no longer part of my life. Only a few 
days ago, and yet how far away it all seemed. Her 
name had a strange sound, her face was a vague 
memory. 

I was free, and many other lovely girls were alive 
in the world. What was this folly which had taken 
hold of me? Marie — a pretty little girl like a thou¬ 
sand others. A good, bright little girl, nothing more. 
Yes, of course, she was very much in love. But every 
young girl is in love with the man who awakens 
her senses. I am not yet passe . Other sweet good 
girls will fall in love with me, if it is love I 
want. 


[29] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


Thank goodness the bond was broken, and only just 
in time. For the first time I fully realised what 
danger we had been in. In spite of all my prudence 
we had become perilously sentimental. When a little 
girl has stolen her hand round a man’s heart, then 
let him have a care. The hand is so soft and warm, 
it feels as though a tiny child were nestling there. 

How easily it all happens! Bless my soul, had not 
my weakness grown out of nothing more important 
than the trifling accident of Marie wearing a simple 
flowered blouse at our first meeting, a blouse on which 
she had spilt some drops of wine. Of course she had 
looked sweet in her vexation, which she had tried in 
vain to hide. She was not far off crying, just as 
though she had been a little girl who did not dare go 
home to her angry mother because she had broken 
the plate on the top of her father’s dinner. Yes, you 
were in a sad scrape, Marie, you lovely child in the 
flowered- 

Enough with flowers and sentimental nonsense. 
Have I not forgotten Marie? 

YES, and I enjoyed my liberty. 

Politeness bids me be considerate to women and 
prudence counsels me to be careful. Yet there is a 
[ 30 ] 



MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


question burning on the tip of my tongue, and out 
it must, whatever terrible consequences it may bring 
upon my sinful head. 

What, may I ask — what is the truth about 
woman’s virtue, that famous woman’s virtue? I 
know — or I was taught — that there are few women 
who step aside from the narrow path of virtue; the 
only path which leads to heaven and matrimony. But 
I know also that men, however much they may be in 
want of money, need never be in want of love. God, 
and every one else, knows, that in this morganatic 
town there are to be found men who are masters of 
harems, which even the Grand Turk would not be 
ashamed to own. I have sought for an explanation 
in my historical reading. I had thought that perhaps 
the ladies’ light cavalry might use the same stratagem 
as the soldiers of the famous hero, whose tiny regi¬ 
ment seemed to be a mighty army, because each 
soldier quickly moved from post to post. But I had 
to abandon this explanation, which sprang from true 
reverence for the virtue of women. For if such were 
the case, then the great body of the masculine troop 
would be left to themselves on these great days of 
battle, when every regiment is under fire at once. 
But I have never heard that this has happened. The 
[ 31 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


riddle remains unsolved. I have asked again and 
again, but I have never received an answer. 

I enjoyed my liberty, as well as a man can in a 
virtuous town. I have no reason to complain. 

There was no need to advertise my liberty. The 
rumour was soon abroad. For a long time my stair¬ 
case had been quiet. Now there was a pitter-patter 
of old friends and new, all coming affectionately to 
ask how the man with the newly-won liberty was get¬ 
ting on. And there were rejoicings day and night — 
in honour of my freedom. 

I DON’T mention these rejoicings out of conceit, but 
because they are an important factor in this legend of 
Marie. 

An author less honest and less conscientious would 
draw the curtain over the events of this period. I 
know some dear comrades who in a like case have 
not hesitated to pretend that their infidelities were 
but desperate attempts at finding forgetfulness in 
dissipation. 

I did not wish to forget — I had forgotten. 

Where was Marie? How should I know? Weeks 
had gone and I had neither seen nor heard of her. I 
confess I had expected a letter. Experience has 
[ 32 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


taught me that one’s lost loves, even when they have 
said the last definite good-bye, always discover that 
there is still one thing or another on their minds, 
which they must let out in letters. But round Marie 
there was the silence of the tomb. From her at all 
events a little postscript would have been welcome; 
hut, after all, it was best so. Evidently she had for¬ 
gotten me, as I had forgotten her. Indeed, I had 
hardly time to think of her, so taken up was I with 
gaiety and — work. For sometimes even I work, too. 
On what? 

My work is to build lovely dream castles, to create 
beautiful women, to make colours out of words, and 
poems of the colours. 

But first and foremost I enjoyed myself — just 
because I had forgotten Marie! 

FORGETFULNESS! dear bird with the soft black 
wings, shadow the couch where Marie has rested. 
Keep watch over my dreams lest they call her up 
again in all her stark loveliness. Soothe my long¬ 
ing with your song, lest it should once more 
awake. 

Marie is no more, do you hear me — spirit of for¬ 
getfulness? She must no longer exist. But your 
[ 33 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


hollow eyes are glaring mockingly at me. Do you 
doubt me? Are you forsaking me? 

Faithless bird! You must not betray me, my for¬ 
getfulness! at least not now when night is here, with 
her seductive thoughts and painful imaginings, flick¬ 
ering above my sleepless rest. In the day-time I need 
you not—for the sunshine keeps all phantoms at 
bay — but do not leave me now that it is night. 

Forgetfulness! No, you shall not escape me. 
Though I tear my hands on your sharp claws, I will 
force your cool wings down on my burning head. 

I had no idea it was so difficult to forget! 

I AM at my window looking out into the white eve¬ 
ning. The first snow has fallen. There is snow on 
the pointed gables of the old houses, and the bridge 
stretching across the black water in the canal is white. 
The ships in the harbour look fantastic with their 
thick masts of cotton-wool and their crystallised rig¬ 
ging glittering with a million points of light. The 
streets are still and solemn, not a soul to be seen. But 
the old houses with the white pointed gables are lit 
up. In some of the windows the lights are softened 
by crimson curtains, while through others I can see 
straight into the rooms. There, a family is gathered 
[ 34 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


for supper; here, a young girl is seated at the piano. 

I am resting my head on my hand, and my thoughts 
are wandering hither and thither. I know not what I 
am thinking, but my heart is hammering away in 
uneven measure, hammering so loud that I can hear 
the throb of its beating right up in my head. 

Then some one starts playing on a concertina. The 
music comes from one of the ships. I catch a glimpse 
of a dark figure on a white deck, a figure which leans 
forward, slowly moving its arms out and in. 

The first notes are false and harsh, but after a little 
while the music improves. A concertina never sounds 
so well as on the water in the open air, with the 
skies above and the deep stillness of nature around. 
Then no other instrument can so faithfully express 
the sigh of the lonely heart for the home that is far 
away, for the father, the mother, and the sweetheart. 
The concertina should be played by strong, tanned 
hands. It holds no more subtle poetry than that of 
a seafarer’s heart, throbbing with the simplest joys 
and sorrows. 

The music trembles through the quiet evening. It 
confides its troubles as openly as a child, and every 
one can understand the unhappiness it sings. The 
tune comes to me like a song with the simplest words: 
[ 35 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


64 1 was alone in a foreign land, where they speak 
a language strange to me. I walked the big city amid 
thronging people, who had no care for me. I knew 
no place where I could feel at home, so I went to the 
public-house with the other fellows. There were lots 
of girls who smiled on me and wanted to get hold of 
me, because I had money in my pocket, and was big 
and strong. They drank with me, and one of them 
sat on my knee and called me her dearest friend. I 
got drunk and went with her; she took all my money, 
but gave me no joy. There is only one in this world 
who makes me happy, and she is many, many miles 
away. I betrayed my own little girl, and I am return¬ 
ing poor to her. I am amongst strangers who don’t 
care for me, and I am crying because my own girl is 
far away, and perhaps has taken another sweetheart, 
while I have been betraying her.” 

No, I won’t listen any more to that stupid music. 
What on earth has this sailor and his lamentations 
to do with me? Let him cry over his concertina, but 
spare me from translating his ding-dongs into words. 
I don’t want to be melancholy. My purse and my 
heart are still safe; women cannot take more from me 
than I want to give them. 

I went out to the square, where beneath the electric 

[ 36 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


lights the girls promenade around the old stiff-legged 
statue, like the horses in a merry-go-round. I chose 
the prettiest and took her with me. She was a good 
soul, eager to please me, and grateful to be in a warm, 
comfortable room with a man who treated her gently. 

But she gave me no joy, and while caressingly she 
leant against me and begged me to say that I loved 
her a little, my heart was crying, because — because 
I had foolishly listened to a sailor who played on his 
concertina! 

EVERY morning a curiously restless feeling hunts 
me out. I go roaming about town without any object 
whatever, street up, street down. I favour most the 
streets where the young women go shopping. 

Though quite without reason I am always in a 
hurry, as if I feared to be too late. The fact is, I 
don’t want to be stopped by friends-—don’t want 
to speak to any one. I want to he alone. I keep 
watching the passers-by, but I recognise no one. 
Often I find myself glaring rudely at ladies I know, 
without bowing to them. I am like a dog who has 
lost his master. Now, thinking he is on the right 
track, he hurries on gladly, and now he is fussing 
helplessly about with nose to the ground. 

[ 37 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


Whenever in the distance I see a tall, slender 
girl with a boa twined round her neck, I am off like 
a shot. I rush along, pushing people right and left, 
until breathless I reach her and discover my mistake. 
Once I ran after a cab all the way to a remote suburb, 
only to see a withered old maid step out. It was a 
blue waterproof which had deceived me. 

Every day, when tired and disappointed I return 
home, I resolve afresh that this game must come to 
an end. 

But the following morning the restlessness is upon 
me again, and I hasten out once more as though 
afraid to be too late. 

WHY am I seeking Marie? What do I want with her? 

Take her back? Commence it all over again? 

No, certainly not. That story is told, and there is 
no sequel. 

I only want to see her, to know that she is alive. 
As soon as I have exchanged two words with her, 
my wish will be satisfied and my soul will be at 
peace. But this death-like silence that has grown 
up between us disturbs and worries me. 

Why has she never written, the cruel, wicked girl? 
If she has done it out of calculation, then woe to her. 
[ 38 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


She shall not die in sin. I will have my revenge; I 
will invent the most dreadful torture. How delight¬ 
ful to see her slender body tremble in terror — to see 
her pleading eyes, yet know no pity. 

Yes, to make you suffer, Marie! But afterwards 
to cover you with kisses, fold you shivering in my 
arms, and with tenderest kisses sweep away all sorrow 
from your soul. Or can it be that she has forgotten 
me? Impossible! No affectionate young girl could 
forget so soon. No, Marie will never forget. Has 
she not given herself into my bondage? Have I not 
taken oath of her every sense, her every thought, 
that she would be mine, mine to my last hour, mine 
when and where I would? 

Then, why not write to her? Let her hear her 
master’s call and she will come back! 

No, and no again! What should I do with her 
when she came? I don’t want her! No, I don’t want 
her! 

But why then all these dreams? Away with them. 
Let the dead be dead. Plant a rose-tree on its grave 
— and forget. 

I AM sitting here forgetting. All around me come 
the sounds of laughter, the shouts of merriment, silly 
[ 39 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


words and fine words of women feasting. My eyes 
fall on white arms, red lips, and heaving bosoms. 
There is feasting at my house, madder and more mag¬ 
nificent than ever before. I look on smiling, while 
the noise grows ever louder. Gaily passing before 
me comes a dancing chain of women, who laughingly 
form their lips for kisses and drink my health, as they 
whisper in my ear that they love me. 

The dancing chain has gone dancing by. I am 
left alone, forgetting. Forgetting all the gaiety, for¬ 
getting all the fair faces, forgetting everything except 
that Marie was not there. 

Forgetting that also, as the days go by. 

AND new grass was beginning to grow on the grave. 

Then it happened that one morning I crossed the 
square. It was terrible weather. The storm swept 
round the statue, where in the evenings the girls take 
their places in the merry-go-round, the wet snow 
drifted through the dense dark air. I forced my way 
through the storm, when suddenly a gleam of spring 
brightened the way before me. A pink flower in a hat. 
The hat on a tall, slender girl. Marie! Yes, Marie! 
We stood in front of each other in the middle of the 
square, where the weather raged its worst. We stood 
[ 40 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


face to face, wet and burning with rain and wind — 
stood and laughed. 

What did we care about the weather? Was it 
cold? Was it stormy? Did it still go on snowing? 
All I knew was that we had the big square all to our¬ 
selves, that there in front of me was the sun shining 
out of the loveliest of all eyes, and spring bringing 
back the roses to the bonniest cheeks in the world. 
We laughed as if we should never stop, so heartily, 
so merrily, so absolutely without reason. What am 
I saying! without reason? Ah, no! never has laughter 
had a better reason. We laughed and we asked all at 
once! 44 Where have you been? I thought you were 
dead.” “ And what about you? I thought you had 
left town.” 46 But why did you not write?” 46 Be¬ 
cause you had forbidden it.” 44 1 had quite for¬ 
gotten that.” Then we laughed again. 

Now I can hear my stern censor ask: And when 
you grinning idiots had finished laughing, I hope 
you went each your own way! 

My gracious, no! we went home together! 

MARIE was with me once more. But not exactly 
as before. To begin our old relationship all over 
again was impossible — on that we were agreed. 
[ 41 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


Those days when Marie was in very truth my little 
girl had passed for ever, and of course Marie was 
perfectly right when she said that, quite apart from 
all common sense had to say, it would be silly to 
expose herself over again to the chance of misery, 
now that she had gone through all the wretchedness 
of parting, and after an heroic struggle, had con¬ 
quered her own heart. She finished up with my own 
pretty words, “that we must never harm each other 
for the world.” 

That we would never do, that we promised each 
other most solemnly. 

Now whenever we met we were no longer bound 
to each other. We did not make engagements long 
beforehand. If we did not meet we took it for 
granted, and when we did it was like two old friends 
who by chance spend a jolly evening together. We 
would realise the golden idea of liberty and 
irresponsibility. 

In this new role Marie charmed me completely. 
She talked like a book — so logical, so incontrovert¬ 
ible. It was just so I wanted her to be, now, when in 
reality I had done with her, and yet valued her too 
much to quite lose sight of her. 

Other women, women for whom love is not a nat- 

[ 42 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


ural gift, women in whom the love-instinct is blunt 
and merely made up of a lot of silly sentimental 
theories, would not have acted so cleverly. They 
would have thought: Now that he is once more 
dangling on the hook, is the time to advance one’s 
claims. Wrapped in their precious cloak of female 
dignity, they would have forced me to purchase every 
concession by a new charter — and I would have told 
such mercenary creatures to go to Jericho. 

Marie was neither dignified nor mercenary. She 
held out to me a basket filled with rich fruits and 
fragrant flowers, begging me to choose freely, and 
she was happy when I wanted to be refreshed. Her 
basket was more beautiful and more tempting than 
ever it was before. 

MARIE had grown more subtle. When I left her, 
she was as she came to me, a lovely blossom from 
Nature’s hand. A flower is beautiful, it cannot help 
being beautiful, but it does not know its own charm. 
Joyfully it unfolds its petals when the sun smiles 
upon it, but at any touch of the cold wind it shrinks 
up frightened and makes itself as tiny as it can. 
Marie was a girl who loved without knowing the art 
of love. 


[43] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


What is the wonderful magic wand which changes 
the wild rose into a gorgeous La France? Marie, 
found again, had developed into a clever woman, 
who fully understood her own beauty, who knew how 
to express her personality in many a subtle variation. 
Was it really you, my shy little ignorant girl, who 
now entered my room radiant and triumphant, like a 
princess clothed in rustling silks, bringing with you a 
heavy hothouse perfume? 

Marie, you were lovely in all this splendour. But 
loveliest because behind all the subtle and piquant 
manners gleamed the one simple tint of my wild rose, 
through the scented hothouse atmosphere waved the 
sweet cool fragrance of your own nature. 

MY gorgeous Marie! Forgive me, but I cannot help 
smiling when I think of what a gorgeous lady you 
were, and how sure you were of yourself. You were 
even, I think, just a little bit overawed by your own 
splendour. I smile now as I have often smiled 
before, when you came in silken froth and foam and 
settled down in my old easy-chair. With your nose 
in the air, you started a spiritual conversation, and 
called me, protectingly, “ your friend.” With pious 
mien your friend enjoyed your charming pose, until 
[ 44 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


suddenly he would cut matters short, and regardless 
of her fears for her finery, carry the magnificent lady 
in his arms and set her in front of the mirror. There 
he would pluck all her feathers, nor rest content 
before the splendid Marie was in nowise different 
from the little Sunday-girl in the flowered blouse. 

MARIE’S splendour! Where did it come from? 

Due partly from anxiety, partly to ill-concealed 
jealousy, I behold this question written full in the 
face of the reader. 

I could very easily answer these inquisitive ques¬ 
tions with some fine fairy tale. I could, for example, 
say that Marie had come into a legacy from some 
rich uncle in Australia, or that she had won a big 
prize in some lottery. 

I could say that she had received an annuity from 
the Government, an annuity which she had indeed 
earned far more than the women who dabble in lit¬ 
erature, and who are supported by the State though 
they have never served poetry half so well as Marie. 

However, in regard to Marie’s money matters I 
prefer to leave the readers in ignorance after all; it 
is her own affair. As far as I am concerned they 
can think what they please, think, if they like, that 
[ 45 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


she stole, or that she earned her living in any other 
criminal way. Or they can — if they are magnani¬ 
mous—think that Marie, now she had grown to 
womanhood, received more pin-money from her 
parents — parents who though they had been rather 
stingy to her of old time, were indeed very well off. 

I THINK that according to good literary usage, I 
ought to have introduced Marie’s parents to the 
reader, told him all their faults and their general 
characteristics. But it is rather late now; besides, 
why should I give offence to these most respectable 
people, who, after all, have very little to do with the 
story. 

There is, however, some one else, whom I am 
bound to introduce. That is Marie’s admirer. 

I knew Marie’s admirer, and could therefore easily 
give a minute description of him. Indeed, I am 
going to tell you something about him, though I must 
commence with the remark that most of it is, of 
course, sheer invention. For how could I possibly 
mention the man by his right name and profession, 
give the address of his tailors, or the number of his 
freckles? But one of my good friends, a refined 
arbiter of taste and a well-known critic, assures me 
[ 46 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


that authors ought not to be allowed to cheat their 
readers out of such information concerning the posi¬ 
tion et cetera of the people who figure in their stories. 

I would inform you then that Marie’s admirer 
was a much respected manufacturer. I choose this 
description for him because he will then at once have 
the sympathy of all novel readers; and I want to 
treat this poor fellow nicely, for he is in my power, 
and I might, without running any risk, turn him into 
a scamp or a devil; but I choose manufacturer, for 
this reason also, that of all others this is the most 
elastic way of making money. One can manufacture 
sun-blinds and cheese, margarine and oil paintings, 
sandals and newspapers, torpedoes and nurses. 

Marie’s admirer then was a manufacturer; he was 
neither old nor young, but a man in his prime, with a 
promising past, a secure present, and a future rich in 
possibilities. Altogether a man whose offer was well 
worth consideration. 

AFTER seriously thinking the matter over, we came 
to the conclusion that Marie ought to accept the offer 
on the condition that the engagement should be kept 
a secret, and that for the present there should be no 
talk of marriage. 


[47] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


This arrangement we sealed with many kisses, after 
which I proposed the toast of the engaged couple and 
made the following speech to Marie: “When at 
length you are married, Marie, then remember that 
next to me you owe your good husband faith and 
obedience. Be faithful as long as you possibly can, 
even though your husband should keep mistresses by 
the dozen. And if fidelity prove too heavy a burden 
for you, then remember that you are the guardian of 
your husband’s honour, and I beg of you take care 
that this is not publicly injured. 

“ For there is this enormous difference between a 
wife’s and a husband’s infidelity — that the faithless 
husband does not harm the wife, while her adultery, 
should it become known, makes her husband ridicu¬ 
lous. No doubt it is stupid and unjust, but it cannot 
be helped; it has been so through all the ages and 
will go on being so as long as marriage exists, and 
perhaps it is not so stupid after all, for the wife’s 
infidelity bears fruit within the home, the husband’s 
outside. 

“ Shame on the women who thus make their hus¬ 
bands the laughing-stock of the town! 

“ But not a whit better, Marie, are those, who, 
without being actually faithless, show themselves in 
[ 48 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


society, at theatres, in public thoroughfares, sur¬ 
rounded by a troupe of admirers, while the husband 
walks behind like a molly-coddle. 

44 There is no excuse for them whatever. Even the 
silliest fool is too good to be made ridiculous by the 
woman whose children bear his name. 

44 Such women ought to be tied to the whipping¬ 
post, every one of them.” 

So severely did I lecture Marie on behalf of her 
future husband. 

AT first I had only the kindliest feelings for Marie’s 
fiance . He did not trouble me. Of course the day 
would come when Marie would be his. Yes, but now 
she was mine, and when I had done with her — why! 
then I would even give him my blessing into the 
bargain! 

But it happened that the manufacturer became 
possessed by a high and mighty demon, and that he 
wanted to show his power over Marie. He, who ought 
to have stood modestly in the background, began to 
domineer, as if he were already her lawful master. 
He watched her jealously, he even dared to spy on 
her, and he would come to her with mysterious hints 
and threats, which she understood to refer to me. 
[ 49 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


In fact he succeeded so well as to frighten Marie. 
One day she declared that she dared not come and see 
me any longer. She was afraid of her manufacturer, 
who was known to be of a brutal disposition. 

Then my patience was at an end, and I spoke to 
Marie as an angry and sorrowful prophet might 
speak to a renegade disciple: “ Who,* I asked, “ is 
your master, he or I? Who has made you happier 
than any other girl on earth? Who has led you into 
the promised land of love? Marie! Marie! would 
you turn from me, forgetting all I have done for you? 
But let me warn you, that if you break the oath that 
you have sworn to me, me, your master, to whom you 
belong, and from whom you cannot escape, then I will 
curse you and drive you out of my house. The 
scourge of my curse will be over your head for ever. 
Now choose as you think best. Choose between the 
manufacturer and me.” 

Marie wept bitterly as she faced my just wrath, she 
blamed her own weakness and implored me not to 
send her away. 

I forgave Marie. But in my heart I swore merci¬ 
less revenge on her audacious suitor. 


IN my meadow runs a white hind. She is tame and 

[ 50 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


more lovely than any other hind in the woods. She 
eats out of my hand, and the moment she hears my 
voice she comes to me. 

There are many hinds wandering near my meadow. 
I coax them to enter and invite them to grass. But 
as soon as they scent the trace of the white hind they 
grow timid, and when, at the edge of the wood, I 
catch a glimpse of my white hind standing with listen¬ 
ing ears, and an inquiring look in her eyes, then I 
hunt all the others away. 

My meadow belongs to the white hind, and she 
belongs to me. She is my love, my joy. She watches 
eagerly for me; she eats out of my hand. 

My white hind is free to play in the woods and over 
strange meadows, but should it ever happen that a 
huntsman would try to catch you, should it happen 
that a huntsman would tempt you from my meadow 
and set you in his own, and teach you to eat out of his 
hand — then, my white hind, would I prove that you 
are mine, I would tear you from his grasp at the very 
moment he made sure of his prey. 

MARIE, my white hind, I am grateful to you for 
keeping a brave heart during these days of trial. 
Quite indifferent to danger, you played between your 
[ 51 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


suitor’s snares and my meadow. He threatened and 
he tempted, but just as he thought that at last you 
were caught in his toils, you would hurry away to 
eat out of my hand. 

Did you feel any remorse or anxiety, I won¬ 
der, over your double-dealing? I am sure you did, 
when you were away from me. Indeed your letters 
told me so. You bade me set you free. Or you bade 
me command you to let him go. But once you were 
safe in my home, with your head resting on my knee, 
all trouble and terror were banished from your soul. 
Here was peace, here you felt with a blessed certitude 
was the only happiness on earth. We two alone. We 
missed nobody, cared for nought else. What mat¬ 
tered the rest to us. Let them fight and struggle in 
the world, let them laugh or cry, let them wear them¬ 
selves out with hatred and despair. 

Here was a holy place, an hour of bliss, shining 
through this vale of tears. 

But I remember, too, Marie, how you would shiver 
and tremble as you left me in the dark night. I 
remember the lingering glance of mute despair with 
which you used to say good-bye to my rooms. 

Why did I never ask you to stay? 

Ah! I did not know the wonderful secret which 

[ 52 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


was hidden like a miser’s treasure in my heart, the 
secret you had guessed, and which comforted you in 
those days of trial. 

I ONLY knew that like a king I sat with my most 
precious treasure in my hand. The treasure was in 
my hand, and I was king. I could use it or give it 
away, just as my royal mood prompted me. 

Proud and haughty I kept my treasure, held it up 
triumphantly before my eyes and said: 64 Truly this 
treasure is rare, and woe to him who dare rob me 
of it. It belongs to me by the grace of God, and I 
need not make account for it to any one. I delight 
in this treasure, and it pleases me to enjoy it. But 
perhaps to-morrow it shall please me to throw it 
away, for I am king, and rich is my treasury.” 

Thus, like a haughty king, I held Marie in the hol¬ 
low of my hand. Confident in my right as her master, 
I amused myself with her, insolently I would set her 
free to delight all the more in winning her back 
again. I knew that when I said, Come, she came, 
and when I said, Go, she went. But I did not know 
that the day should dawn when in fear and distress I 
would forget all pride and cry, Stay with me, my 
rarest, my only treasure. 

[ 53 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


I HELD the treasure in my hand! 

It happened late one evening that I passed by a big 
restaurant. The rooms on the first floor were bril¬ 
liantly lighted, and through the open windows came 
the sound of dance music. 

Suddenly I remembered that Marie had been 
invited to a ball for this evening, and that the ball was 
to take place in these rooms. So now, at this moment, 
she was dancing there! dancing with the manufac¬ 
turer, who, I was sure, looked proud and pompous, 
because every one could see that Marie was his. 

Ah, don’t be too sure, my good friends; at this very 
moment my revenge shall strike you — you who dare 
to dispute my right to Marie. 

I enter the restaurant, ask for pen and paper, and 
write: “I will not allow you to be with him any longer. 
Say that you are ill, and come to me. I am sick with 
longing for you. If you love me you will come.” 

A footman promises for love and money to carry 
the letter safely to Marie, while I return home. I 
make the rooms look pretty. I am not in the least 
restless, for I know she will not fail me, and indeed, 
scarcely have I finished my preparations, before a 
carriage drives up to my door, from which steps a 
lady dressed in white. 


[54] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


She stands in my room with heaving bosom, and 
hand pressed against her throbbing heart. A lovely 
vision! A lovely foam-clad Naiad! Her dress made 
of layer upon layer of white gossamer, thin as a 
spider’s web, falls round her in froth-like waves, 
looking as if it would fade away at the softest touch. 
Yes, a dream-vision she is, and Marie, herself, thinks 
she is dreaming. She looks around her in smiling 
bewilderment, and says she cannot understand that 
she is really here, she has not the faintest idea how 
she got away from the ball and her suitor — she only 
knows that she had my letter, and could not stay. 

But when the carriage has taken Marie away, I 
open the window and inhale the cold, rippling night- 
air. In the sky all the stars are lit up, and with 
royal arrogance I laugh up to the heavenly ball-room: 
“ Even if Marie were dancing there with the angels, I 
could force her to come to me with a word.” 

AGAIN I see the inquisitive moralists arriving with 
spectacles on nose and text-books in their pockets, 
and I hear them, after a serious consultation, give 
Marie an exceedingly bad character. 

How could she treat that excellent manufacturer in 
such a wicked fashion; he, who had none but the best 

[ 55 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


intentions? If she could not behave herself, it was 
at least her clear duty (see text-book VII., section B, 
paragraph 3) to break her engagement. 

Poor logical moles, you should keep to your under¬ 
ground realm — there to your heart’s content you can 
pass your votes of censure against the too vivid col¬ 
ouring of the flowers, against the too frivolous song 
of the birds, which must hurt all decent and peace- 
loving moles. But please leave Marie alone, and 
don’t criticise her youthful wanderings in life’s 
labyrinth. 

Marie is like a butterfly rioting in a garden. Every 
flower is tempting her and whispering, 66 Come to me, 
beautiful butterfly!” Only the flower with whom the 
butterfly cares most to stay says, “ Don’t trust me, 
very soon I will drive you away.” 

Now I know the secret hope which Marie, in spite 
of all, nursed in a corner of her heart. But I know, 
too, that she did not dare to reckon on a hope which 
she feared even to confess to herself. Therefore our 
relationship seemed to her a happiness lent for but 
a little moment, a windfall of happiness quite outside 
life’s bargain, and for which she need not make 
account. Afterwards she would have a long life be¬ 
fore her in which to be an honest man’s honest wife. 
[ 56 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


So without remorse, nay, with a proud sense of 
doing the right thing, she gave herself to me in beauti¬ 
ful serenity. 

SOME profane authors say, “beautiful as Sin”! 
I am not profane, and I don’t think they are right. 
Sin is hideous. Her face is distorted, her lips are 
white, her hands are* palsied, and like a coward she 
prowls the world in the owl-dark night. Her evil 
breath poisons all the joy of life. 

I know Sin; I have feasted with her. Doleful 
feasts where the wine was bitter as wormwood, 
where horror froze one’s smile, and one’s blood 
turned to ice under the foul kisses of her corpse-cold 
mouth. 

Yes, hideousness is the form and character of Sin. 

Make Sin beautiful as Marie was beautiful, and 
she is no longer Sin. 

NOW I will set the spectacles of the moralist on my 
own nose and look at Marie’s suitor. 

He was an honourable fellow. That was clear, 
but even had I seen the reverse, I should not have 
admitted it. For I have made it my duty to speak 
well of him. 


[57] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


He was an honourable fellow, and I sing his 
praises, because his intentions toward Marie were 
most proper and respectable. Yet surely, they could 
hardly have been anything else. I allow him every 
good quality except one — he was not a man. 

My proof? 

He clung to a woman who did not love him. 

But perhaps she lied to him? Who has heard the 
words those two spoke to each other? Not I, of 
course. But I know that every true lover can distin¬ 
guish between false and true love-words as easily as 
the diamond-merchant can distinguish real stones 
from imitation. Love weighs everything on the most 
delicate scales, never a letter, never a stroke too 
much. 

Marie’s suitor knew that Marie did not love him 
as surely as he knew that he loved her. Yet he did 
not release her. He was content with the crumbs that 
fell from her lover’s table. 

But the man who is “ content ” is not a man. 

Marie is the most fascinating woman in the world, 
and I love her, but were I to suspect that she dreamed 
of any greater happiness than to be mine, then I 
would leave her on the instant. 

I would bite off my tongue rather than beg for 

[ 58 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


her love. One may go a-begging for orders and titles, 
for favours and wealth, but never for love. 

I REVIEW those days in my memory, and they pass 
before me one unbroken triumphal procession. 

As in his eyrie, near the sky, the eagle will rest 
awhile, so sit I aloft in my fortified castle, but the 
stir and excitement of battle is tempting me afield. 
I sail away for foreign coasts. 

I swoop down and ravage the towns of the enemy. 
When I return with my viking ship full of splendid 
spoil, the torches blaze in my castle. 

Hy and halloo! The dance is merry! It is a war 
without fear of defeat, a feast without thought of the 
morrow. 

It is said that the old vikings were worshipped most 
blindly, and most truly adored by those women whom 
they had stolen from foreign coasts; and I think it 
very likely. Every true woman dreams of a brigand 
who would wildly desire her and carry her away by 
force in his strong arms. Don’t tell me those cloister 
legends about young virgins who preferred prison 
and torture, yea, even death by their own hand, 
rather than endure a brigand’s passionate embrace. 
These are tales for the nursery, not for my lady’s 
[ 59 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


bower, where the birds are impatient for flight. The 
more rudely I carried off Marie, the more intense 
grew her love. When she saw my ship nearing the 
coast she pretended to flee. It was so much more 
wonderful to be taken on board by force than, docile 
and willing, to trip up the gangway. 

THE torches are lit, I am expecting Marie. 

I am leaning against the wall nearest the staircase; 
there I can hear the instant her foot touches the first 
step. My thoughts grow so gentle while I thus wait 
for Marie, whose little foot in another moment or two 
will be on my stairs. How many times I have sat like 
this, listening for the first sound of Marie’s arrival, 
and yet my heart is beating as passionately as of old. 

My sweet little girl! Ah, if you knew how I am 
longing for you! But you don’t know it, because 
you always see me so self-controlled. It never dawns 
on you that in lonely hours your lover knows too well 
that vague terror which makes the heart tremble. 

You dearest of all dear ones, I am a vain and 
obstinate fool, that I don’t draw you close into my 
arms, lay your hand on my heart and say, 64 Do you 
feel how restless it is here? Yes, your lover, who 
pretends to be so sure of you, is in fact so little sure 
[ 60 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


after all, that he is ill of anxiety every time he expects 
you and every time you leave him.” Marie, my 
blessed one, in a few moments you will enter 
my door, and my foolish heart will hide all its 
trouble. I give you many beautiful words and many 
true kisses, but all the anxiety in my heart I cannot 
confess. If only I could! How sweet it would be 
just once to set free all that is pent up in my heart. 
How sweet to tear open my bosom and without any 
reservation let all my longing, all my trouble, stream 
forth like rippling blood. I cannot do it, Marie! I 
am a cynic at the bottom of my heart. A vain fool! 
I cannot do it, I dare not do it. 

The great door bangs. I start up listening. No, it 
is a heavy dragging footstep, not Marie’s light tread. 

And again I wait. But I have lost the thread of 
my thoughts, and now I have only one thought: Why 
does she not come? 

If you have a lover, young maidens, take my 
advice, let him wait once for you in vain, but if you 
love him truly, don’t do it more than once. If he 
stands this severe test, you may be sure he loves you 
very dearly. But if you twice make him endure the 
hell of waiting in vain, then he will know that you 
are not worthy of his love. 

[61 j 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


I am waiting, while the minutes fly like seconds. 
Oh, that I were able to stop the flight) of time! But 
never has he gone so fast as now, when every passing 
minute robs me of hope. My heart is struggling not 
to give in. With untiring eagerness it invents new 
explanations, new excuses. Don’t worry, she will 
come. She has been delayed, she has forgotten the 
exact time, she has been detained on her way. 

My heart struggles in vain. While the clock ticks 
on, my hope is bleeding to death, and doubt and 
mockery are triumphant. I curse Marie and call her 
a wicked false girl. The most hideous suspicion 
awakens in my heart, and my revengeful thoughts 
invent the crudest tortures. 

At last I find myself on the edge of the bed, star¬ 
ing in dull hopelessness through the open door into 
the dining-room, where the table is arranged with 
delicate dishes, wines, and many lights. 

I rouse myself, move to the window and open it. 
A soft spring rain is falling through the warm and 
misty air. I rest my forehead against the wet window- 
frame. The cruel pain has gone; I am only tired, so 
tired, and my heart seems withered. The soft moist 
air brings relief. The tired withered feeling changes 
again into a gentle sadness, a patient longing. If you 
[ 62 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


came in this moment, Marie, surely I would not harm 
you. 

I would lay my cheek against yours, and in the 
mild spring night, which softens everything that is 
hard and frozen, I would confess to you my heart’s 
wonderful secret even now whispering in my soul. 
... I turn round and watch, with a smile, the candles 
still burning on the table. Slowly I blow them out, 
one after the other. For a long time I remain in the 
dark without thinking and without suffering, without 
desire, without regret, feeling only a meek longing, 
a tender desire to be good to Marie. 

THE morning came and with it a message of explana¬ 
tion, then Marie herself; and all the bewildering 
shadows of the night had disappeared. The explana¬ 
tion was as simple as could be, and it was only by 
mere accident that it had not reached me the evening 
before. 

What a fool I had been, to fear that Marie would 
desert me. No! she was mine more than ever before. 
My heart swelled with joy — away with such weak¬ 
ness. Still I can ride, unscathed, through the battle, 
still victory follows my banner. 

Marie, if you had seen me last night! Now you 

[ 63 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


only see me as before, confident, and smiling most 
graciously, taking it all just for what it was — an 
annoying mistake. Did I play my part well? or did 
you suspect there was something behind, something I 
wanted to hide from you? Did you feel, when I held 
you in my arms, that my happiness was greater than 
I would admit? Did you see through all my cunning, 
I wonder, when you discovered the burnt-down 
candles on the daintily-laid table, and with a re¬ 
proachful smile said, 64 You have been sitting up 
late again!” And when I answered, “Yes, I had 
important work to finish,” was it quite ingeniously, 
quite without a spice of malice that you rejoined, 
“ Yes, what else should have kept you up?” 

AT last, as the reader may have noticed, a little 
excitement has found its way into this account of 
mine and of Marie’s love. The story is fast approach¬ 
ing its end, and from an artistic point of view paren¬ 
theses are scarcely any longer advisable. 

But I am forced to stop on the road once more, for 
I see a great many sneering and mocking faces, which 
I must clear out of the way. 

They are the up-to-date saints, poetry’s philo¬ 
sophical puppies, and downy-chinned ascetics, who 
[ 64 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


with indescribable scorn regard the fellow-artist who 
in this old-fashioned way writes about women and 
love. 

They understand far better how to fulfill the 
mission of modern poetry. On high-sounding 
adjectives they climb the stars to chat with the 
Almighty and dish up their celestial interview with 
all that obscure profundity which fills their confused 
head. 

True poetry is that which tells every one that 
poetry is something much finer than ordinary human 
words, and these only are poets, poets with truly noble 
ideas, who stoop to nothing so common as to sing of 
two who love each other. 

These young poets have made the remarkable dis¬ 
covery that they are moulded of too fine a clay for 
love. Passion is degrading for them, it distracts 
their minds from their high calling, and soils the 
virgin soul of which they seem to think heaven has 
such desperate need. 

Let them stay among the stars, poor devils. The 
fair women on earth will never miss them. But 
should they some day come sneaking along with their 
lust — so love is called in the stars — the plainest 
women in the slums might teach them that there is 
[ 65 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


more poetry to be found in a pair of maiden eyes 
than in all the stars put together. 

After which I continue my story about Marie. 

I AM anxiously feeling my pulse. Whatever is the 
matter? What strange fluid has poisoned my blood? 
Fire burns in my veins, fever^ rages in my head. A 
perpetual terror has taken hold of me. During the 
day it robs me of all strength, so that for hours I sit 
idly staring in front of me. But during the night, 
when at last I have fallen asleep, it seems to lurk just 
at the back of my ears. Suddenly it will leap out and 
terrify me, and with a shriek I am awake. 

I am ashamed of my weakness, and least of all 
would I confess it to Marie. 

Besides, just now Marie needs to be comforted. 
She is not happy. In a few months’ time she is going 
to be married. She cried the other day she was with 
me. I forced myself to speak encouragingly to her. 
Of course there was nothing new in that, we had 
known she was going to be married for ever so long. 
With such simple comforting words I dried Marie’s 
tears. Of course I am right, she says, and she laughs 
with me and admits that she is a foolish child. But 
the moment I see Marie smile, I bring down the glass 
[ 66 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


I hold in my hand so hard on the table that it breaks 
into a thousand pieces. Marie looks at) me amazed, 
but does not speak, and I laugh and laugh again. I 
dread that she has discovered my madness and force 
myself to be gay as I have never been before. Marie 
looks still more amazed, and when she leaves me 
says — I dare not ask her if she is ironical — 66 How 
merry you have been to-day!” 

Yes, I am mad! Physically nothing is wrong. I 
have tested my pulse again and again, its beat is 
normal. I eat and drink, I call on my friends and 
they notice nothing. My face betrays no worry, my 
eyes, are bright. But my veins are filled with fire, 
and scarlet flames dance before my eyes. I am in a 
perpetual state of terror, and when the fear has 
strongest hold of my heart, I feel a terrible desire to 
kill. Do you know, Marie, why I jumped out of bed 
so suddenly last night and lit all the lights? You had 
murmured his name, and in the darkness my hand 
had sought your throat. 

If only I had him in my hands, how it would de¬ 
light me to hear the rattle in his throat, to watch his 
eyes turning white in death. 


I AM mad with jealousy. Yet why go on screening 

[ 67 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


myself behind trivial words? I was mad before when 
in cold blood I saw Marie prepare herself to be his. 
My eyes, which I imagined to be clear and clever, 
were blinded with conceit. I was like a god who 
deals out fates after his own pleasure. Like Zeus, 
who well knowing Alcimena’s beauty, yet with 
Olympic serenity lays her in Amphitryon’s arms and 
blesses their embrace with a smile. 

Poor Zeus, never to have known the greed of 
jealousy, your divine blood always running luke¬ 
warm and equable. You have attained your heaven; 
your happiness was devoured long ago, and now 
you are merely digesting. 

But for us there is only one way that leads to hap¬ 
piness: intoxication. And only by storming heaven’s 
gates can we gain admittance. For the first time in 
my life I am wise. Now I understand that happiness 
is not to be found first here and then there; it does 
not lie in the sipping and tasting of many cups. Hap¬ 
piness is a cup we empty to the last drop. 

You may place a hundred goblets in a row before 
me and fill them with the most generous wine. I 
will leave them one and all untouched, for my cup 
is Marie. Her love is my wine of which I cannot 
spare a single drop. 


[68] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


AND she was to be his! All the beauty I had care¬ 
fully cultured was to bloom for him. Her smile 
would brighten his table, and make every day of his 
week a holy day; her kisses would weave into his 
sleep the loveliest dreams, her young ardour would 
strengthen him in his work, and all the sweetness and 
charm of her being would bring eternal summer to 
his home. 

His it shall be to hear her laugh or weep; in his 
ears she shall pour all her joys and sorrows. What 
is the good of deceiving oneself? I know how it 
will be as soon as she is his. Of course she denies 
it now; she says that never, never can anything come 
between us. She believes for certain that she speaks 
the truth. But she is young, and she does not hate 
him. She will never deny him his rights as her hus¬ 
band, and the man to whom a woman gives herself 
must indeed be a poor creature if he cannot soon set 
the fire alight. After that everything will come 
smoothly enough. Once she is happy in his arms, 
she will soon hand over to him her whole individ¬ 
uality, her gratitude, her trustfulness, her confidence. 
They will sit together in the twilight, she on his knee; 
he will ask her about me and she will betray me: 
because when a woman is sitting thus lovingly on a 
[ 69 ] 


MARIE: A ROOK OF LOVE 


man’s knee, she will never admit that she has loved 
another man still more passionately. She will tell 
him all the bad and hateful things about me he wants 
to hear. His kisses will tempt her to talk, and if he 
doesn’t seem quite contented, she will entertain him 
with heaps of lies. 

In fancy I pass out into the street, and see the 
lights in their rooms. I can follow them from hour 
to hour; I know that now they are dining, that now 
she is sitting on his knee in the drawing-room, that 
now at last the lights are blown out . . . that now she 
is standing in front of the mirror with her bare arms 
around his neck. 

And this is really to happen? She is to be his? 
He, who has no right in her, except what I have given 
him. Now that I feel how necessary she is to me, 
am I meekly to carry her to his home? Rob my home 
to adorn his? 

No — and yet. Dare I keep her back? 

To-day, yes. But to-morrow — who knows what 
one’s heart may whisper to-morrow? 

FOR who knows but that one’s dream-castle may be 
all fallen into ruins by to-morrow. To-day this 
woman is everything to you — life seems valueless 

[ 70 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


without her. You are ready to fight and slay for her 
sake, if only you may keep her. All brightness, all 
joy and beauty seem concentrated in her personality. 
She is your sun, and with her setting all the world 
grows dark. 

But yesterday. Think of yesterday! What was 
she then? A pretty toy. A sweet mistress, dearer 
and sweeter perhaps than any other, yet only a toy, 
a moment’s pleasure, a fleeting summer day. 

If any one had said to you then, “ Some day you 
will give your life for this woman,” you would have 
laughed in his face, and sworn your biggest oath that 
nothing was further from your mind. 

But was she not even then as beautiful and 
attractive, just as good and just as much in love with 
you as now? Yes, certainly. She was just the same. 
It is your way of looking at her which has changed. 
Gold is gold — and through all the ages it has been 
beautiful to look upon. But it was not till gold was 
stamped into coins that it gained its high value, and 
if some day another metal is chosen for coinage, then 
gold will be reduced once again to mere glitter. 

To-day you have stamped Marie as the one woman 
of your life — but dare you be sure that you won’t 
value her once more to-morrow as you valued her but 

[ 71 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


yesterday: a pretty toy, a moment’s pleasure, a pass¬ 
ing summer day? 

What is there to prove that you won’t? 

IT is the last night, our last night. In a few hours’ 
time Marie will go abroad to visit an aunt, and when 
she returns it will be to get married. I shall not see 
her again — she is another man’s wife. If every¬ 
thing had been as in the old days, in the beginning of 
our friendship, I am sure her marriage would not 
have parted us. It would only have inflamed the 
more my passion for conquest. But now neither con¬ 
quest nor booty from foreign coasts tempts me any 
longer. I have no wish to disturb another man’s hap¬ 
piness and peace. My faith in happiness and all my 
pride are broken. Even were I again to hold happi¬ 
ness in my hand, I would not dare to believe in it, 
would not dare to hold it fast. 

-It was night. All round us was solemn quiet. 

We lay hand in hand, each filled with our own 
thoughts, and staring open-eyed into the darkness. 
Your little warm hand, Marie, rested so cautiously in 
mine, it did not move at all, as if it feared to break 
the silence. It seemed to me as though we flew on 
great silent wings through space, far away from sor- 
[ 72 ] 



MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


row and pain, to a sphere where time is not, where 
reign the dreamless sleep and the darkness that 
knows no fears. 

For a long while) we lay like this. I knew it was 
long, because I heard the church clock strike several 
times. I heard the stroke, but did not realise that 
they announced the passing of precious time. Then 
from far away I heard Marie’s voice. It came to me 
as if carried on the soft waves of great silence. She 
said, 44 1 think it will be like this to die.” It seemed 
to me that I had thought exactly the same words, and 
I answered — I recognised my voice, but it also 
came from far away — 44 Yes, death is like this.” 

Again we lay quietly. I felt Marie’s hand cling 
closer and closer to mine as we floated higher and 
higher. Then I heard again Marie’s voice speak to 
me: 44 1 should like to die together — with you!” 
But again I thought the same words, and I answered: 
44 When we are tired we will die together. Will you 
promise to come if I call you?” For answer she 
pressed my hand. We did not speak again, before 
the grey daylight broke through the night, and awak¬ 
ened us to the painful truth that the hour had come 
when we must say good-bye. . . . 

On that night was Babylon destroyed. 

[ 73 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


MARIE has gone away to a foreign land, and I have 
gone into a monastery. For many days I have not 
set foot outside my door. Why should I? I should 
not find her. I have locked myself up in my rooms 
and stuck a placard with the words 64 Gone away ” 
on the door. It is no lie, for my whole soul has fol¬ 
lowed Marie. 

Now and then during the first few days, I heard 
a creaking and clattering on my staircase; the sound 
stopped outside my door, and then I heard it creak¬ 
ing and clattering down again. 

Now there is nobody who looks me up. People 
think I have left town and no one inquires for me. 

In my silent lonely rooms, where the memory of 
Marie is everywhere, I have spent the time in telling 
the story of Marie as it is written in this book. It is 
not a novel artistically composed. It is only a bundle 
of loose leaves from a love-story for which only one 
art is necessary, that of being in love. It is a book 
about the way in which I learned that simple and yet 
so difficult art. 

MARIE, my holy one! See! a sinner is kneeling at 
your feet and he asks nothing. He who could never 
ask enough wants nothing now but only to lie at your 
[ 74 ] 




MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


feet and look up into your lovely face. He, the auto¬ 
crat, is now the suppliant, he the disbeliever swears 
by your holy name! . . . 

Marie, you, whose love gives me all, you, from 
whom flow all good gifts, only to rest at your feet 
and to worship your every look seems riches 
enough! . . . 

Marie, so tenderly human, so heavenly pure, you, 
whose soul rises like a white dove from the passion- 
fire of your body, I thank you that you taught me 
the unearthly happiness of earth-born love. 

MARIE writes to me in a letter from her foreign 
town: “ My dear friend, this city is great and beauti¬ 
ful. There are wonderful art-collections and many 
well-kept parks. The streets swarm with merry 
people and one sees something new and interesting 
at every step. There are, too, plenty of theatres and 
concert-rooms and glorious confectioners’ shops! My 
friends are sweet to me, they take me about from one 
show to another, and we go to the theatre every 
evening. 

“ If you were to ask me for any minute description 
of my life here, it would be impossible to give it, how¬ 
ever much I might wish to do so. I watch heaps of 
[ 75 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


people and heaps of things going by, but I remember 
nothing of it all. I am only longing all the time for 
night, that I can go to bed and be alone. 

“ Then I lie perfectly quiet, trying to live over 
again the last night I was with you. But there is such 
a noise in the streets here. The noise sounds like the 
murmur from a riotous crowd of people, and through 
the threatening hum I hear the coachmen’s angry 
shouting and their lashing of their whips on the 
horses’ backs. I was afraid the first few nights. I 
seemed to feel these lashes in my innermost heart, 
and trembling, I would creep under the coverlet. But 
then I thought that if it were only you who tortured 
me to death it would not be torture at all. Willingly 
I would take death from your hand. 

64 Do you remember our talk that last night? You 
see, what I promised you then, I meant. This I want 
you to know — before we part.” 

I STOOD on the platform of the car. I had been 
standing there, wrapped in my cloak, all through the 
night. I had seen the evening shadows rise from the 
valleys, creep over the mountains and cover all in 
darkness. Now day is dawning, a pale light shines 
on the horizon, and quicker and quicker the train is 
[ 76 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


hurrying on towards Marie’s foreign town, the 
engine keeping time with the beating of my heart. 

What strange anxiety is it which has kept me awake 
all night? What is the meaning of all these ques¬ 
tions, full of fear, which my heart wants answered, 
while I stare meditatively into the darkness. 

I have no reason to doubt Marie’s love, and I doubt 
my own no longer. 

Yet, I am going trembling to meet her, and this is 
the question so full of fear: 64 Won’t we feel strange 
to each other?” 

The Marie I am travelling to find is not the Marie 
of old. She is not the heedless, loving child who, in 
former days, used to lie in my arms. She is not the 
merry willing mistress, my conquest, and my prey 
— yet, perhaps she is still both, but at the same time 
something greater and higher. That has been devel¬ 
oped in her which no doubt was always the backbone 
of her personality, that, which I only discovered the 
last few times we were together, that, which ulti¬ 
mately has become the beautiful sacrament I worship. 

And she! How will she recognise me? I scarcely 
recognise myself. I won her in play, I took her with 
sword in hand, and we used to step off together into 
the lightest dance. But now I am coming to her 
[ 77 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


weaponless and in earnest. Before I asked for a 
dance, now I ask for dear life. Before, in my 
sublime arrogance I was satisfied with little, now I 
beg in humility for everything. . . . 

We rush along towards the dawning day. But sud¬ 
denly it is dark as night again, with a roar the train 
flies through a tunnel. I feel the darkness press 
heavily upon my chest, my ears tingle, and half- 
giddy I seize hold of the railing. It seems as if the 
tunnel will never end, I grope about to find my way 
back to the carriage, where the light is burning, then 
— what a transformation. 

The sun is rising on the purple edge of heaven — 
wide, wide it spreads its golden halo, pouring quiv¬ 
ering light over glimmering, grassy valleys and dewy 
cornfields. 

Beautiful young day! In thankful joy I kneel to 
you; you set me free from the dark and anguished 
night and lead me into new-born love for Marie. 

OH, to meet again! 

What golden sunshine over the mountains, and 
what gentle tears in the peaceful valleys! 

We stood opposite each other in wondering rapture, 
we had no words to ask or answer, but we fell into 
[ 78 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


each other’s arms, and with tears of joy, and faint 
with happiness we sang the praise of the dawning of 
the day. Is it not all a dream? Is it really you and 
I? We are looking at each other, but we shake our 
heads, we cannot believe it. And yet for the first 
time now it seems as if we really knew each other. 
This is the wonderful beauty of our meeting; before 
we had met in a scarcely realised dream of happiness, 
now the dream has become living reality. 

You lovely girl, so full of life, with such glory of 
joy and peace in your mischievous eyes, and with 
that grown-up woman’s thoughtfulness on your child¬ 
ish brow, you are putting your arms round my neck, 
saying: 66 So at last, in the eleventh hour, that has 
happened for which I never dared hope. For it is 
true now, is it not? It is not something you will 
repent to-morrow, not something you imagine at the 
moment, because you have been longing for me?” 

I answer: 64 1 love you, as surely as I have always 
said too little rather than too much. I love you in 
joy and in sorrow, on week-days and Sundays. You 
are the woman I will die with, but with whom I intend 
first to live a long, long time. Naturally I have been 
longing for the caresses of my dearest love, but still 
more have I been longing for all the rest that means 
[ 79 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


you, your true heart, your pure thought, your gentle 
speech, your bright smile, which is my sun in the 
darkness, your faithful hand which gives me strength 
on the way.” 

But as I tell Marie this, she bursts into tears, be¬ 
cause! she knows that I speak the truth, and because 
she is happy. 

AT this point some one pulls my sleeve from behind. 
I am sitting with Marie on my knee, and I ask 
angrily, 66 Who dares to interrupt us?” 

But a voice whispers: “ I am here as deputy from 
some of your readers. Your book which began so 
terribly has now struck a better vein, there are even 
some of us who feel tears in our eyes. But now we 
are so afraid that, after all, it will remain depraved. 
For heaven’s sake marry Marie! Remember you 
have taken her from a man who had the most respect¬ 
able intentions.” 

Have no fear, my implacable censor. Marie, tell 
the nice lady that she can without scruple leave us 
alone together. 


THE bishop stands in front of the altar, his golden 
robes vying in splendour with the shining candles. 
[ 80 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


The venerable marble statues in the niches have been 
washed, and at the organ sits the old white-haired 
organist with a silk cap on his head and the grand 
cross on his breast. The pews are filled with the most 
loving young couples in the country. They carry 
flowers in their hands, the young girls white roses, 
the young men, red. They are all looking towards 
the entrance-door, where twelve kind old clergymen 
in black velvet surplices are standing, six on either 
side. The organist is beginning to play, and the 
organ-tones roll under the high arches of the church. 
All the young men and maidens are standing up. 

The heavy oak door is thrown open and a dazzling 
light fills the opening; Marie stands there in white 
bridal robe, with the long veil-like foam falling round 
her. A blushing woman with downcast eyes. A 
heavenly peace, a serene joy shines out from her. 

An admiring whisper runs through the church, the 
bishop at the altar turns round and puts on his spec¬ 
tacles, and seeing how lovely Marie is, he hurries 
forward, bows to her and leads her to the altar. 

The young men and maidens scatter roses before 
her, roses white and red. As she passes along some 
of the roses catch in the veil, and Marie smiles when 
she sees her flower-sprinkled dress. 

[ 81 ] 


MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 


But the old organist has stopped playing, he is 
leaning over the railing to catch a glimpse of Marie, 
and through all the peep holes in the arches, angel 
faces are looking on. . . . 

In the words of the Old and of the New Testa¬ 
ment, Marie is given into my hands; I lead her out 
followed by the bishop, the twelve clergymen, and all 
the loving young couples, while the old organist is 
playing with his one hand and waving to us with the 
other. 

Outside waits the carriage with the white horses. 
We step in and drive to my home, to our home. Then 
the church-bells begin to ring. 

YES, ring all bells, sing all angels! A soul is saved. 

It was a very bad soul, a soul which revelled in sin 
and only knew repentance by name. Ring out, ring 
out, bells! Sing all angels. It is a very hardened 
sinner who is being carried up to you! 

Who was it who saved him? Who is it who carries 
him? 

A weak woman, not herself without fault and stain, 
but strong in her faith. Her faith guided herself and 
saved him. Ring, sing, now she is carrying him 
up — up- 


[82] 



MARIE: A ROOK OF LOVE 


Why does he not come alone? Why must she lead 
him? 

He is still weak, and his foot trembles. But helped 
by her strong faith he will find the way. 

Alas! he is sinking! She is not strong enough to 
carry him any longer. 

Let the joy-music sound, that the weak woman may 
be strengthened, and to encourage him sing out his 
beloved’s name. 

What is the name of this faithful woman? 

Marie is her blessed name. Ring it out, sing it 
loud! Look, he lifts his head. He grows stronger. 
Now they are coming higher and higher, hand in 
hand. But silence! he speaks. What does he say? 
Hush, ye bells; be silent, ye angels. Listen to the 
words he is calling from the sinful earth. 

He speaks the name of Marie. 

But he goes on speaking. Can you hear him? 
Ah, sing joyfully, ye angels, ring blissfully, ye bells. 
He has spoken the words of redemption: 

Through the many to the one. 

THE END 


[83] 





NEW QUARTOS 

T HE attractive thin quarto format in which so much of the world’s most 
famous literature first made its appearance lends itself most fittingly as 
the style in which to present this group of distinctive titles. 

The volumes measure 63^ x 8^, are printed on specially made Flemish Book 
Paper, bound in boards with labels, and throughout represent a high class of 
book making. 

The price of each volume is $2.00, net. 

MARIE: A BOOK OF LOVE 

By PETER NANSEN 

Written by Peter Nansen, translated by Richard LeGallienne’s talented 
wife, this little masterpiece of modern Danish art, was first published in 
English in 1907 under the joint imprint of William Heinemann, London, 
and John W. Luce & Company, Boston, as the second part in the 
volume entitled, “Love’s Trilogy,” (out of print for several years). 

It is a fervid love idyll told by a man who having many mistresses adds 
Marie to their number as the incident of a moment. At first unconsciously, 
then against his will, a great and ideal love for Marie comes to him. From 
the many to the one he transfers a love tried in the fires of experience. 

In beauty of style and delicacy of handling Nansen is unsurpassed. He 
succeeds in creating an atmosphere of purity, wholesomeness and spiritual¬ 
ity where a lesser artist would offend both morals and taste. 

CASANOVA 

An Appreciation by HAVELOCK ELLIS 
With Excerpts from the Memoirs 

Havelock Ellis closes his essay on the “Memoirs” of Casanova in these 
words, “It is one of the greatest autobiographical revelations which the 
ages have left, Augustine’s, Cellini’s, Rousseau’s, of its own kind supreme.” 
Unfortunately the notorious eroticism of certain portions of the “Memoirs” 
prevents their circulation in English in complete form. 

Of all existing comment on the “Memoirs” the Appreciation by Ellis, pub¬ 
lished in this volume, is the most informing, detailed and complete. 

The excerpts from Casanova are complete in themselves, the first being 
his adventures in Rome, (1743 -44) at the Papal Court of Benedict XIV; 
the second his famous escape from the ducal prison in Venice (1756); the 
third his return to fortune in Paris at the Court of Louis XV, where he is 
instrumental in establishing the Government Lottery (1757), and have 
been selected with a view to furnishing examples of the vivid portrayal 
the “Memoirs” abound in, of historical events, personages and social 
conditions in Europe in the mid-eighteenth century as well as introduce 
the reader to the style, character and personality of the author. 


NEW QUARTOS 


LONDON NIGHTS 

By ARTHUR SYMONS 

No single work so well represents the spirit of that famous period in English 
literature known as the eighteen nineties as does this volume of poems 
which first appeared in 1895, the day of “The Yellow Book” and “The 
Savoy.” Freedom from convention, freedom for self-expression, the 
battle-cry of the nineties, achieves triumphant realization in this vibrant 
poetry, a classic as significant and appealing today as then. 

Under the caption “A Note on Sensations” Randolph Bartlett contrib¬ 
utes an important introduction dealing with the literary aspects of the 
eighteen nineties. 

LAZARILLO OF TORMES 

Translated by MARIANO JOAQUIN LORENTE 

From this, the first of the Spanish picaresque or vagabond tales, the novel 
as a recognized form of literature has been developed. 

It was the literary sensation of its day and has never lost its power to 
interest and amuse, while with the passage of years its significance in 
literary history has steadily grown. 

The translation here offered is new, literal, and one which carefully pre¬ 
serves the Spanish flavor of the original. 

The introduction by the translator is an unusually interesting and im¬ 
portant contribution in the field of early Spanish literature. 

IN PREPARATION: 

THE MUTINY OF THE BOUNTY 

Readers of history, travel and fiction connected with the South Seas are 
constantly finding references to the ship Boun,tj, the mutiny on board in 
1788, and to the descendants of such of the mutineers as escaped to Pitcairn 
Island and for twenty years literally dropped out of the world. 

The records of this mutiny, the voyage of four thousand miles made by 
the ship’s officers in the open boat in which they were set adrift by the 
mutineers, the punitive expeditions sent out by the British Admiralty, 
the arrest and trial of such of the men as failed to escape to Pitcairn Island, 
and the extraordinary community that came into existence on that island, 
are the most romantic series of authentic adventures in the chronicles 
of the South Pacific. 

Prepared from original documents, with maps and charts. 

JOHN W. LUCE & CO. 

212 Summer Street 


Boston, Mass. 






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